


Alone Together

by Darkakademic



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: 2 bros chilling in an archive 5 feet apart (because they're gay), Fluff, Introspection, M/M, Martin Blackwood Lives in the Magnus Institute Archives, Mentioned Jane Prentiss, No Angst, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Season 1 Magnus Institute Archival Staff, just fluff, love is stored in the comfortable silences, martin is a poet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-14 09:29:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29665239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkakademic/pseuds/Darkakademic
Summary: Living in the archives was not what Martin had expected. Neither was the behaviour of a certain Jonathan Sims.(fun fact: working in silence is a love language)
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 9
Kudos: 117





	Alone Together

**Author's Note:**

> I am 1) soft for comfortable silences 2) nostalgic for season 1 and 3) procrastinating by writing fluff

When he started the job, Martin had a whole list of expectations and hopes for his time working in the archives of the Magnus Institute. Contributing to important research, drinking tea amid shelves of dusty boxes and feeling mysterious, getting closer to his co-workers (and his boss, especially his boss). Living in the archives with a debilitating fear of _worms_ had not been on his list. But here he was anyway, spending his nights among the darkened shelves, flinching at any movement and waiting for the light of day to transform the archives from an unfamiliar shadowy landscape into his recognisable workplace.

He’d been surprised when Jon had suggested he stay in the archives. Between the dog incident on his first day and… various other events he’d rather forget… Martin hadn’t made the best first impression on the rest of the archival team. The three of them were just such close friends, and being the outsider felt intimidating. Not to mention he had 0 experience in archiving and was very much making everything up as he went along. Nonetheless, he really liked these people, and he had so badly wanted their respect. Or maybe not respect. Maybe a general belief that he wasn’t just a human catastrophe. That would do.

Not that he wasn’t friendly with his co-workers. Sasha and Tim had been nothing but friendly to him since they started working together. Tim was seemingly grateful for a new victim to his incessant teasing and Sasha had gone out of her way to make Martin feel welcome. But Jon had always been cold. Not just to Martin, to Tim and Sasha too. But at least he spoke to them, didn’t treat them like disappointing strangers he’d been chained to by Elias’ poor recruiting choices. The four of them had gone out together for dinner in that first week to ‘celebrate’ the new job. Martin remembered it all so vividly despite getting more than a little tipsy with Tim (Jon had acted stone cold sober the whole time even though he did drink with them, which didn’t surprise Martin at all). It had been nerve wracking, and Martin very much felt like he was intruding, but then Sasha had asked him about the dog, and they had all got talking, and Jon had looked exasperated at the whole affair, and Martin had quickly adjusted to the ebb and flow of Sasha and Tim’s bantering, and Jon’s occasional snarky quip. They reached a point of cordial acquaintanceship quite quickly, and while Martin had wanted to be _friends_ with his colleagues, at least it was a start. Baby steps, he supposed.

They never really spoke outside of work, so he hadn’t expected them to check up on him, in their defence. When he didn’t come into work for weeks, why would they bother to see if he was alright? Martin had been OK with that. He hadn’t relied on anyone caring about him. And then, when he gave his statement, he just assumed Jon would give that little shrug, raise his eyebrows in thought for a second, then tell Martin to get back to work. But he didn’t. His voice softened slightly, in a way Martin hadn’t heard before, in a way that sounded rare and unfamiliar even to Jon himself. Then he rattled through the practicalities; here’s where you can sleep, I’ll have a look at getting more security etc. and Martin was too taken aback to take in what Jon was actually suggested.

"I didn’t think you’d take me seriously," he stammered.

But Jon was taking him seriously, and, as Jon explained how Jane had taken his phone and was messaging him, Martin was even further shocked to hear that Jon had called him to follow up, to check on him. So maybe Jon didn’t want him dead, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything beyond the man wasn’t a complete psychopath. He still didn’t like Martin. He’d made that quite clear by the disdain that crept into his voice as soon as the conversation moved on from the imminent danger to work. He started complaining about how he needed something followed up on that Martin hadn’t managed because – oh yeah, he’d been trapped in his apartment- and that was that. Obviously, the Prentiss matter didn’t get discussed further. Martin was going to stay in the archives. A practical solution to a tricky problem. No need to dwell on what had happened, just look forward. Martin appreciated that. Didn’t want to think about it, and Jon seemed to understand, and beyond the statement didn’t even mention it for the rest of the day.

* * *

It had been very surreal to say goodnight to his co-workers and be left alone in the archives for the first time. Sasha had bought him some essentials while on her break, and Tim had stocked up the break room fridge with supplies he’d been given by the canteen staff. Jon had been locked in his office and didn’t emerge until long after the others had headed home, after encouraging Martin to ‘call me if you get weirded out,’ and to ‘tell us all about the ghosts that live down here’.

Alone in the archives with Jon. Martin couldn’t say he hadn’t thought about this scenario before. This wasn’t quite the context he would have hoped for, but still, alone but for Jon suited him quite well. No one to judge him as he continually stole glances at the office door, glimpsing Jon’s hunched over figure through the frosted glass.

It was hard to explain quite what it was that had so drawn Martin to Jon. But from the moment he’d burst into that office, he’d barely been able to take his eyes off of his boss. Certainly, he was attractive, but Martin’s fascination was far deeper than that. It was the lines of weariness etched on his face, tinged with concern, and the general air of frustration and determination in his mannerisms as he sorted through yet another box of statements. He didn’t need to know any more than that about Jon to know that he _wanted_ to get to know him. That he wanted Jon to know _him_.

Jonathan Sims was, well, slightly notorious amongst the staff of the institute since he got the archivist position. It had come as a shock to pretty much everyone that the unsociable, sarcastic, and frankly sometimes downright unpleasant researcher had been promoted with seemingly no relevant experience whatsoever (not that Martin could really talk there. Glass house and stones and all that). Jonathan Sims was an enigma who only got more interesting with his promotion. No one knew much about him beyond his association with Tim and Sasha and his absence at pretty much every social event that wasn’t mandatory. Martin had been chatting with Rosie, who always seemed to know everyone’s secrets, the day before he started working in the archive, and even she knew very little about him.

"He’s an intrigue, for sure. Kind of hot though. Sort of, tall dark handsome. Except short, dishevelled and mysterious. Either way, it works."

"Something of a catch?"

"Probably would be if he wasn’t so unsociable. I can’t for the life of me see what Elias is thinking, but who are we to question The Head of the Magnus Institute?" and then they had laughed and moved on to talking about something else.

Watching him at work, Martin couldn’t help but feel an inexplicable sense of worry for the head archivist. The statements seemed to take some great fundamental energy out of Jon, Martin had noticed. After falling silent upon finishing a tape, there would always be a moment of complete stillness, and then he’d emerge looking… blank. Drained. Martin couldn’t imagine what was going on in that head of his, all those statements, all those people, and Jon just having to wallow in their fear, share in their pain. So, naturally, he worried about this man that he barely knew but wanted to know, who couldn’t seem to care less about him beyond his role in Jane Prentiss’ schemes.

Jane Prentiss. She lived in Martin’s head. Constantly. He could barely get work done as every time he tried to concentrate, he’d feel that phantom itch at the back of his neck, hear the squirming sound of one of those worms that had found him, that had reached him in his safe place. So Martin didn’t get much work done. Instead, he spent a lot of time just observing the goings on of the office. He noticed things from his corner of their little world. The floorboard that always creaked as a warning that Jon’s door was about to open, the way Tim typed with just his forefinger, the way Tim’s typing irritated Sasha. And of course, when they were alone, he would watch Jon.

Apart from anything else, the man was always there. As he’d said, before Martin had moved in, the cot in the storage room had been Jon’s for when he worked late, after all. It didn’t seem healthy. As far as Martin could tell Jon had no friends, no family, no partner – in fact, other than his colleagues Martin wondered if Jon spoke to anyone at all. But there was no loneliness, only a rapt fixation with the work. It was an obsession. He became so absorbed in his tapes that Martin thought Jon must have forgotten he was there multiple times, and he had seen him start a little a few times when he would have to walk past his office door. He would hear Jon’s voice catch slightly as he read the tapes, and could imagine him glancing upwards, just momentarily, to acknowledge Martin was real as he was brought out of tape-world into reality. It gave Martin a little thrill, to know that he was in Jon’s thoughts like that, even if only for a second at a time.

Teething issues had been inevitable with him living in a workplace, and for the first few days there had been some peculiar run ins. On one occasion, Jon had showed no signs of leaving by well past midnight, so Martin had simply left him to it and headed to sleep, only to be woken and nearly have a heartache about 30 minutes later to a ragged and exhausted Jonathan Sims fumbling for the light on autopilot to spend the night in the office. It had been incredibly embarrassing for both of them; Jon had apologised profusely, and Martin had stammered out sleepy platitudes and offered to help Jon find a sleeping bag or something, but Jon had quickly made his exit, barely looking at Martin. Just another inconvenience he had caused for Jon. He just couldn’t seem to do anything right when it came to him.

Eventually, though, Martin felt he had settled into the rhythm of his new life. Things became more regular; they developed a routine. Tim clocked out at 4:55 just to ‘spite the capitalist machine’, Sasha would head out a little later when she’d finished up, then Martin would be alone for the night. He didn’t count Jon, really. The only evidence that he was even there was the silhouette through the office window. He never talked to Martin or acknowledged he was there, and Martin would either him leave from in the storage room, or if Martin was still in the common space, he would walk past him with a brisk nod then head out wordlessly. And that was fine. That was just how it was.

Imagine his surprise, then, when one evening Jon walked out of his office with his laptop, and instead of heading straight past Martin to the door, sat himself at the empty desk in the other corner of the room, opened up the laptop and promptly resumed typing.

Silence for a few moments. This was new and undiscovered territory. Why had he emerged, what did he want?

"Oh. Uh. Hi, Jon," Martin tried by way of starting a conversation, "What are you- what brings you here?"

"Needed a change of scenery." Jon replied, his voice curt and cordial, clearly signally that the conversation was over.

Well, alright then. Martin guessed he wasn’t going to argue with that, so he shrugged to himself and turned back to his own laptop, where he’d been distracting himself from his reality with crappy online quizzes. However, with Jon in the room, he felt a pang of productivity guilt, like he ought to be working, so he clicked off the tab and decided to be constructive. A resolve that unfortunately did not last long, as he was entirely preoccupied trying to solve the mystery of the presence of his boss. What was he doing? Had his desk burnt down? How much of a change of scenery had he really achieved, moving from one desk to a near identical one in an adjacent room? Martin wasn’t going to complain, though. He welcomed the company, and he didn’t want to give Jon another reason to be disappointed that he existed. So the two of them sat in silence and worked, until Martin’s yawns became audible to the point of distraction, and Jon glanced at his watch, then reluctantly gathered his laptop and his keys, and gave a little cough.

"Heading home?" Martin asked, "It’s pretty late, just make sure you watch yourself on the night bus."

"Yes, thank you, Martin. I will watch myself while I travel alone at night in London." The bite in his tone stung Martin a little, and Jon must have seen the reaction on his face, because he continued, "Usually I would just stay, but, well…"

“Oh! Sorry, yeah. Sorry." 

“Don’t apologise. I don’t want you to apologise. I was just stupid, got a bit wrapped up in it all, forgot that I needed to keep an eye on the time."

"Sorry.”

“Martin, you’re going to have to stop apologising, it’s becoming irritating."

“Right. Sorr-. Right. See you tomorrow then I guess.”

“Bye, Martin.”

* * *

Jon didn’t mention it the next day, and Martin just assumed it was a blip. A weird moment where Jon experimented with a new workspace, and now the normal routine would resume, and they would return to barely interacting. And he was right for about 8 hours, until they were alone in the archives again, and Martin had just settled at his desk to log in and stream some TV before turning in for the night. He knew Jon was still there, he always was. But he was in his office, as per usual. Just as Martin got comfortable and had everything loaded up, he heard the characteristic floorboard creak, followed by the scrape of a door opening, followed by Jonathan Sims with laptop in hand making himself comfortable in the desk across the room.

"Needed another change of scenery?"

“Suppose so, Yes."

So this was going to be a regular occurrence, then. Martin sighed, clicked off his tab and thought he might as well pick up a statement, as he wasn’t going to be able to relax with Jon probably watching him when he wasn’t looking, checking what he was up to. At first, that’s what he thought it was. All a ploy to get Martin to work, for Jon to check up on his hapless employee. But after stealing a few glances over at his boss, Martin could see Jon really wasn’t paying attention to him, so he put his headphones in, loaded up his TV and started watching. No reaction from Jon, except for maybe a huff of laughter in acknowledgement. This was the state of affairs now apparently. Jon followed the same routine as the night before, ostensibly forgetting the time (although Martin saw him looking at the clock multiple times and not leaving. Workaholic), then as soon as Martin started yawning, Jon packed his things and left.

They didn’t mention it the next morning, but that evening Jon was there again. And the next. And the next. So it became another routine, one that Martin was fond of. He treasured the quiet evenings with Jon, sat in companiable silence. It helped him relax, to have another presence with him in the dark. He felt safer. And Jon always headed home just as Martin was thinking he really ought to get some sleep now. It was a perfect arrangement that seemed to suit Jon’s workaholic tendencies just as well as Martin’s lonely pining. Jon reminded him a little of a cat. No acknowledgement or affection, just a presence, bringing the warmth of another living being with it despite the distance between them and the distinct lack of communication or affection. (Not that Jon would show him affection, that was a weird thing to think. He was his boss. ) Jon never read the statements out those evenings. Sometimes Martin wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing, and he didn’t want to pry and ask. He wondered, of course. Did the man not have anything to go home to? Was his whole life really here at the archives? But he never asked, and Jon never gave any sign of divulging anything, so it remained a mystery.

After a while Jon seemed to become more familiar around Martin. He still wouldn’t record the tapes – that seemed a distinctly private ritual for him. But he would occasionally look up from the papers he was perusing or the screen he was glued to, and he’d just talk. Cursory questions mostly. _Do you recognise this name? Did you get anywhere with that line of enquiry?_ At first Martin hadn’t been entirely sure what to make of it. Was this all some sort of test, Jon’s way of catching him out for being unqualified? But then he would see Jon shake his head warmly whenever Martin broke the silence laughing at something he’d read. It was all very strange and Martin did not have the mental capacity or clarity to know what to make of it all. They never mentioned Prentiss. It felt like saying her name would bring her closer somehow, make the fear more real. The darkened archives became a safe space for Martin. They began to feel like home.

And thus, on cue, Jon had to confuse Martin again. It came after a few weeks of the current situation, but instead of gathering his things and leaving straight away, Jon headed back into his office, returning holding something Martin hadn’t seen him with before. He handed Martin a worn paperback that looked like it had been read dozens of times. With a cursory flick of the pages he could see that it was absolutely covered in handwriting and highlighting. He looked up at Jon with an expression of puzzlement.

"I heard some of your… poetry," Jon said in answer to his silent question. Martin felt his blood rush to his face at this, not certain he liked that Jon had heard something so private. But that didn’t explain what the book was.

"what did you think?" Martin asked tentatively.

“I’m not really into poetry, if I’m honest with you.”

“Aren’t you a literature graduate?” 

"It’s not all poetry, Martin.”

“So what are you into? Don’t tell me you were a theatre kid or something.” And Martin is met with silence. “Oh my God you were! That is incredible, I can so picture you-” he cut himself off as Jon was staring daggers at him. “Anyway, uh, what is… what’s the book?”

“Oh. That. That is mine. From when I was an undergraduate. Like I say, I don’t really like poetry, but if you insist on filling the archives with your creative writing, the least you could do is take up the influence of some good poets. Much better than trying to be the new Keats, I think. Writing poor poetry and then dying prematurely is not, I assume, the impression anyone wants to leave on the world" He laughed to himself at that. “I’ll see you tomorrow Martin." And then Jon took a breath, as if he was going to say something else and Martin caught his eye in that moment and had to shy away from the intensity of it, like Jon was analysing him. Then the moment passed, Jon let out the breath without saying a word, and left Martin alone in the dark.

Only now did Martin look at the book Jon had given him. It was a copy of _The Complete Works of Walt Whitman._ Of course. Jon had an English literature degree. _Of course_ he was going to be pretentious about poetry. Martin smiled a little to himself at the thought of Jon as an actual human being who went to university, then carried the book with him to his space in the little room that had become home to him, and started to read. There was something oddly intimate about reading Jon’s notes on the poems. It felt like he was seeing into a part of Jon that wasn’t there in the real world, a part of him that only existed on paper. The poetry itself was beautiful. As much as Jon professed to hate it, Martin could see where Jon had highlighted moments that had meant something to him. The more he read, the less he felt alone in the semi-darkness. He could almost hear Jon’s sarcastic intonations voicing the pencilled thoughts, like there was a conversation between him and the ghost of a Jon that read poetry. The experience was utterly enthralling, and by the time Martin was finally calm enough to sleep he’d read his way through half the book, which lay across his chest as he fell asleep, and was waiting for him in the morning with the soft embrace of its verses.

He was continuing to flick through the book in the break room the next day over a cup of tea and a slightly stale pastry when Tim and Sasha walked in together, laughing about something that must have happened on the way in.

"What you got there, Martin?" Tim asked, moving to hover over Martin’s shoulder, trying to peek at the pages. Martin clapped the book closed quickly, hiding it on his lap so Tim couldn’t see the scribbled annotations covering every inch of the paper. He wasn’t entirely sure why he did that; it wasn’t as if Jon had sworn him to secrecy. But it felt private. And. If he was honest, Martin liked that he and Jon had something that only they knew.

"Oh?" Was Tim’s response, “Oh I get it. It’s steamy love letters from your muse. I completely understand, do continue." And he doubled over laughing upon seeing Martin’s stricken face at the implication. Sasha, from the other corner of the room, just shook her head with a knowing smile, then started talking about some open case that distracted Tim, and the matter was over.

* * *

The next evening, Martin decided for the first time to break the comfortable quiet that had settled between the two of them as they enacted their surreal evening routine. hey were sitting, as had become habit, on opposite ends of the common space, Jon typing away intently, concentrating fully on his screen. Martin had the book on his desk next to him.

"So I had a look through your book," he said, although Jon was so absorbed in whatever he was doing he only looked up to catch the last few words.

“Hm?”

“Your book. I had a look at the poems in it. They’re… they’re beautiful actually. And you had some, some really cool insights. It’s weird, actually, getting to see what you must have been like as a student. Bet your professors all loved you." Jon laughed at that,

“They thought I was a bit too precocious actually. Asked too many questions. But, I’m glad y- I hope this means if I have to hear any more of your creativity, it might be slightly more… informed."

"Well, I’m not sure I’m quite at Walt Whitman’s level of fame yet, but you never know,"

“Indeed, I imagine the unfortunate subject of your lyric will be immortalised for the ages.”

How in God’s name was Martin meant to respond to that. He just laughed nervously. What else would he have done.

After a suitable amount of time for the air hanging between them to become thick with awkward energy, Martin spoke again:

"Well, thanks, again, Jon."

"You’re welcome, Martin," Jon replied with such sincerity that Martin felt suddenly incredibly self-conscious.

Not sure what to do next, he decided to move himself, to dispel the sudden bolt of nervous energy that was running through him, and he moved across the room to hand it back. It was strange, the distance between them had never felt so far as when Martin heard his own footsteps echoing as he moved towards Jon, whose eyes were fixed intently on him as he walked. He looked surprised, as if there was some invisible wall separating them, and Martin had just walked straight through it. He was looking at Martin again, with that intense gaze, as if he’d just noticed, really noticed, Martin was there, and was taken aback by it. He didn’t say anything, just caught Martin’s eye, and Martin felt something pass between them, though he wasn’t sure what.

As he handed the book over, Martin moved exactly at the same time as Jon did, and their hands awkwardly bumped across the cover. The warmth from Jon’s fingers was mellow and comforting, and Martin realised it was the first physical contact he had had in a long time. He lingered for a moment, both their hands frozen in place by the connection, before Jon pulled away a little self-consciously, and Martin fumbled about, trying to put the book down but unable to find a space that wasn’t taken up by a statement Jon was looking at.

"Uh, I’ll just, leave it. Here? Or I can put it in your office. Or wherever really, whatever’s eas-"

“Keep it, Martin." Jon cut him off. "I’ve read them all so many times I could recite them in my sleep at this point."

"Thanks, Jon. Any other recommendations while you’re at it?"

“You’re the poet, Martin, not me,” and the tension broke, the moment clearly over. Martin gave a half-hearted laugh, retreating back to his desk, and as he sat back down he glanced at Jon, who was looking pointedly around, anywhere other than at Martin. And then they were apart again, and it was like it had never happened, and they got back to what they had been doing.

“Jon….”

“Yes, Martin?” He replied with marked exasperation.

“What are you doing here?”

“Working. Unlike yourself.”

“It’s the middle of the night, you don’t actually need to stay after 5 you know.” And Martin could have sworn Jon looked hurt at that.

"Would you prefer I left?”

“No. No, that’s not- No. I just mean, there’s more to life than work.”

“I know that.” Jon replied in a strange voice, that sounded almost wistful.

“So-“

“Listen, Martin. If you want me to leave, I will. But I rather like the archives at night, so if you don’t mind, I’m going to stay.” Martin just nodded, getting more and more confused by Jonathan Sims with every interaction they had. Jon left sooner than he usually did after that, seemingly a little put out by the altercation that had disrupted the workspace.

So that was it. He had blown it. Back to the cold unwelcoming loneliness of solitary nights in the archives. Good one, Martin, way to ruin everything good.

But Jon was there again after Martin had eaten his sad little microwave dinner, thinking that he was alone. He thought Jon had gone home when Sasha had, so he had just heated up some food and was going to go straight to his little room and wallow for a while, but as he came out of the break room Jon was sat there, as usual, and he seemed to be waiting for Martin, concern etched on his face because he wasn’t at his desk. When he saw him come out of the break room, he didn’t speak, just nodded almost imperceptibly, then turned back to the box on his desk and started sorting through it again.

Martin sat himself down at his desk, and they just existed together, comfortably alone in one another’s orbits, in the little space they had carved out as their own.


End file.
